Replay (15 page)

“Stop it, Simon. I shouldn’t have bothered you with all this. But Pilguez insisted. Let’s go,” Andrew said, standing up.

“Let’s go where?” Simon asked, blocking his way.

“You’re staying here, seeing as you’re up to your eyes in work. And we’re going to carry on our investigations and find the person who wants to kill me, before it’s too late.”

“Just a minute! I don’t like this one bit, not one bit,” Simon muttered, pacing around his office. “Why would I stay here on my own while you two go . . . ”

“Goddammit, Simon! This isn’t a joke. My life’s at stake here.”

“Yeah, yeah,” sighed Simon, grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair. “And may I know where you’re going?” he said, turning to Pilguez.

“I’ve got to make a quick trip to Chicago,” Pilguez said, walking out the door. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Don’t worry, I’ll find my way out.”

Simon went to the window overlooking the workshop and watched the inspector leave the garage.

“Can you really predict what’s going to happen over the coming weeks?”

“Only what I can remember,” Andrew replied.

“Am I going to sell any cars?”

“The Pontiac, at the beginning of July.”

“How do you remember that?”

“You invited me out for a meal to celebrate it. And to cheer me up.”

Andrew paused, then looked at his friend and sighed.

“Only the Pontiac? Times really are hard. I was selling two a month last year. Any more good news to tell me?”

“You’re going to live longer than me. That’s good news, isn’t it?”

“Andrew, if you’re pulling my leg, tell me now and I’ll give you an Oscar for best actor. I’m this close to believing you.”

Andrew didn’t answer.

“Anyway, it doesn’t matter. All that counts is that
you
believe what you’re saying. I’ve never seen you look so lost. So where do we start?”

“Do you think Valerie would be capable of killing me?”

“If you really did leave her on your wedding night, I can understand her holding it against you. Or maybe it’s her father wanting to take revenge.”

“I hadn’t put him on my list—that’s one more name!”

“I’ve got a simple idea to keep you out of harm’s way: when you get married next time round, try to stay out of trouble for a few months before. That’ll eliminate two suspects straight off.”

“It’s all your fault.”

“What do you mean, my fault?”

“If you hadn’t dragged me to Novecento, I’d never have . . . ”

“You’ve got some nerve. In that story you were just telling me, you were the one who begged me to go back there.”

“I can’t believe she’d be capable of murder, even in the throes of anger.”

“You say you were killed with a knife—she could’ve stabbed you with a surgical instrument. They’re easy to get hold of in her job, plus didn’t you say it was done with real precision? You’d need quite a bit of dexterity to do that.”

“Stop it, Simon!”

“No way. You’re the one who came to me to discuss it! And you can tell your retired inspector that. I’m the one who’s going to find your killer, not him! What’s he doing in Chicago anyway?”

“I’ll explain on the way.”

Simon opened his drawer and took out a ring of keys. He showed Andrew down to the workshop and gestured to the Packard.

“I’ve got to take her to show a customer over on 66th Street. Shall I drop you off on the way? Although I’m wondering why I’m going to meet this guy, seeing as you’ve told me I won’t sell anything before July.”

“Because you don’t totally believe me yet, that’s why.”

Andrew spent the car journey answering Simon’s rapid-fire questions about their meeting with Capetta. They parted company in front of the
New York Times
Building.

When Andrew got to his desk, he found an e-mail from Olivia Stern asking him to come and see her ASAP. He could hear Freddy Olson whispering into the phone behind the partition. When Freddy spoke in hushed tones, it meant he was onto a scoop he wanted to keep for himself. Andrew slid his chair over to the wall and pressed his ear to it.

“When did this murder take place?” Olson asked the person he was speaking to. “And it’s the third attack of its kind? I see, I see,” he continued. “Then again, a knife in the back isn’t exactly original in New York. You might be jumping the gun, deducing it’s the work of a serial killer. I’ll take a look into it. Thank you. I’ll get back to you if anything new comes up. Thanks again.”

Olson put down the phone and stood up.
Probably going to the restroom
, Andrew thought. He’d long suspected that Freddy didn’t just go there to relieve a weak bladder. His colleague was in a constant state of agitation, and Andrew supposed he often disappeared to do a line of coke.

As soon as Freddy had disappeared, Andrew hurried over to his desk and began rifling through his papers.

A man had been stabbed the previous day in Central Park, near the Turtle Pond. His attacker had knifed him three times before running off, leaving him for dead. The victim had survived his injuries and ended up in the ER at Lenox Hill Hospital. The incident had been covered in the
New York Post
; the tabloid adored that kind of sensational news. Olson had scribbled two dates and two addresses at the foot of the page: January 13: 141st Street; and March 15: 111th Street.

“What are you doing?”

Andrew jumped.

“I’m working, as you can see. Unlike some people, by the looks of things.”

“And you’re working at my desk?”

“So
that’s
why I couldn’t find my things!” Andrew exclaimed. “I’ve got the wrong cubicle,” he went on, standing up.

“Do you take me for an idiot?”

“Fairly often. Excuse me, the boss has asked to see me. Maybe wipe your nose—there’s something white above your lip. Were you eating something with powdered sugar?”

Freddy wiped his nostrils.

“What are you implying, Stilman?”

“I’m not implying anything. Are you covering run-over dogs now?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Those dates and addresses you’ve noted down—mutts that have been squashed by buses? My partner’s a vet, you know, if you need a hand with your investigations.”

“A reader made a connection between three knifings in New York. He’s convinced it’s a serial killer.”

“And you agree?”

“Three stabbings in five months in Manhattan, with its two million inhabitants, is a rather insignificant statistic, but Olivia’s asked me to investigate.”

“How reassuring. Anyway, it’s not that I’m bored by your company, but I’m expected elsewhere.”

Andrew turned on his heel and walked over to Olivia Stern’s office door. She gestured for him to enter.

“How are your inquiries coming along?” she asked, continuing to tap away on her keyboard.

“My contacts on the ground have sent me new information,” Andrew lied. “I’ve got several meetings lined up, and an interesting lead that could take me further afield than Buenos Aires.”

“What lead is that?”

Andrew racked his brain. Since his journey back in time had begun, he’d devoted barely any time to his investigations because he was too preoccupied with his own fate. To satisfy his editor’s curiosity, he drew from his memory details of a trip he wasn’t supposed to have gone on yet.

“Apparently Ortiz has moved to a small village at the foot of the mountains, not far from Córdoba.”

“Apparently?”

“The situation will become clearer once I’m there. I’m off in less than two weeks.”

“I’ve already told you I want concrete evidence: documents, a recent photo et cetera. A few witness accounts just aren’t enough. Unless your sources are one hundred percent trustworthy.”

“I really feel like you take me for an amateur when you talk to me like that.”

“You’re too sensitive, Andrew. And paranoid, too.”

“I’ve got reason to be, believe me,” he replied, standing up.

“I’ve taken on huge expenses for this piece, so don’t let me down. Neither of us can afford to make a mistake.”

“I’ve got strangely used to hearing that warning recently. By the way, did you ask Olson to investigate a serial killer case?”

“No. Why?”

“No reason,” Andrew replied as he walked out of her office.

Andrew returned to his desk, pulled up a map of Manhattan on his screen and located the addresses from Olson’s notebook. The first two murders had been committed on the edge of parks: one on 141st Street on January 13 and another on 111th Street on March 15. The most recent occurred close to 79th Street. If it was the same killer, it looked like he was committing his crimes as he worked down the island. It occurred immediately to Andrew that the attack he’d been a victim of had fit in perfectly with this southward trajectory. He did a search on the most recently stabbed man, snatched his jacket and hurried out of the office.

When he got to the lobby, something caught his eye as he looked through the plate glass window toward the street. He took out his phone and dialed a number.

“Why are you hiding behind a plant outside the entrance to the newspaper?”

“How did you know?” Simon asked.

“Because I can see you, imbecile.”

“Did you recognize me?”

“Obviously. Why the raincoat and hat?”

“A disguise.”

“You must be kidding! What are you doing?”

“Nothing. I’m keeping an eye on your colleague Olson’s comings and goings. Each time he leaves the building, I tail him.”

“You’ve gone crazy!”

“What else do you want me to do? Now that I know I’m not going to sell a car for two months, I’m not going to waste my time at the garage while someone’s plotting to kill you. And shh! You’re blowing my cover.”

“You don’t need me for that. I’m coming out to join you. Get out from behind that greenery!”

Andrew joined Simon on the sidewalk, took him by the arm and steered him well away from the building.

“You look like Philip Marlowe, in other words, ridiculous.”

“This raincoat cost me a fortune. It’s Burberry.”

“It’s hot as hell, Simon.”

“Are you just here to give me a lecture about playing private detective?”

Andrew hailed a taxi, told Simon to get in, and asked the driver to take them to Park Avenue and 77th Street. Ten minutes later the taxi pulled up in front of the entrance to Lenox Hill Hospital’s emergency department. Simon went in first and made his way over to the reception desk.

“Hi,” he said to the nurse. “We’ve come to see my friend, Doctor . . . ”

Andrew grabbed him by the arm again and yanked him to one side.

“What’ve I done now? Aren’t you here for an appointment with a psychiatrist?”

“Simon, either behave properly or leave right now, got it?”

“I thought you’d made a wise decision for once. If we aren’t here for you, why are we in this hospital?”

“A guy got stabbed in the back. I want to question him. You’re going to help me get into his room as inconspicuously as possible.”

Simon’s delight at taking part in something like this was written all over his face.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Go back and see that nurse at reception and claim to be the brother of someone called Jerry McKenzie. Say you’ve come to visit him.”

“Consider it done.”

“And take off the raincoat.”

“Not until you’ve admitted that you’re not pulling my leg,” Simon replied as he walked away.

Five minutes later he came back to Andrew waiting in the lobby.

“Well?”

“Room 720, but visiting hours don’t start until 1
P.M
and we can’t go in—there’s a police officer at his door.”

“We’re screwed,” Andrew said irately.

“Unless we have a visitor’s badge,” Simon added, popping a sticker onto his coat. “Like this one.”

“How did you get that?”

“I showed her my ID, said that poor Jerry was my brother, that we had the same mother, but not the same father, hence the name difference, that I’d just arrived from Seattle, and that I was his only family.”

“And she believed you?”

“I appear to inspire confidence. And with this raincoat, Seattle was completely convincing; it rains there year-round. I also asked for her phone number so I could take her out to dinner, as I’m all alone in the city.”

“Did she give it to you?”

“No, but she felt flattered so she gave me a second badge . . . for my driver,” Simon continued, sticking one onto Andrew’s jacket. “Shall we go, James?”

In the elevator on the way up to the seventh floor, Simon put his hand on Andrew’s shoulder.

“Go on, say it. It won’t hurt, you know.”

“Say what?”

“‘Thank you, Simon.’”

* * *

Andrew and Simon were frisked thoroughly before the police officer would let them in.

Andrew walked over to the dozing patient, who opened his eyes.

“You’re not doctors. What do you want?”

“I’m a journalist. I’m not looking for trouble.”

“Go try that on some politician,” the man said, sitting up in bed. “I don’t have anything to tell you.”

“I’m not here for a story,” Andrew said, drawing closer.

“Get out of here or I’ll shout for help!”

“I was stabbed too. And two other people have met the same fate in similar circumstances. I’m wondering if it’s the same assailant. I just want to know if you remember anything. His face? The weapon he used on you?”

“Are you stupid or what? I was stabbed in the back.”

“And you didn’t see anything coming?”

“I heard footsteps behind me. I was with several other people leaving the park. I felt a presence close in on me. I was lucky—half an inch higher and the bastard would have hit an artery. I would have bled out before I got here. The doctors told me that if the hospital weren’t so close, I wouldn’t have made it.”

“I wasn’t as lucky,” Andrew sighed.

“You look like you’re in good shape.”

Andrew’s face reddened. Simon rolled his eyes.

“Did you lose consciousness immediately?”

“Almost,” McKenzie replied. “I thought I saw my attacker walk past me then run off, but my vision was blurred. I couldn’t give you a description of him. I was on my way to see a customer and he robbed me of ten thousand dollars’ worth of merchandise. It’s the third time I’ve been attacked in five years. This time I’m going to apply for a gun license—authorized beyond the 215 square feet of my jewelry store. But you’re a journalist—did he take anything from you?”